


The Perfect Gift

by skybone



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skybone/pseuds/skybone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding the perfect gift for someone can be challenging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Even when you think that nothing can be worse than right now, and that it will never change, things often get better. Much, much better. And sometimes the road to the best things in life goes by way of some of the most painful.
> 
> This story expands on the Shard "Wintersend."
> 
> Note that this story will make much more sense if you read [The Shield and the Flame ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5273555)first.

**The first year**

Cassandra is meticulous in her care for her weapons, her armour. Every night on expedition she sits by the fire and cleans, and mends, and polishes. In the forefront of battle—and she is always in the vanguard—she gleams, she flashes, shining like a star. The Inquisitor watches, and if she must sometimes shut her eyes from the pain of the brilliance she is careful that no one sees.

And now First Day approaches, for the first time since they came to Skyhold, for the first time since the Conclave. It is a time of hope and new beginnings and reasserting the bonds of love and friendship and community. It is the custom to give gifts. At Satinalia the Inquisitor gave each of her companions and advisors an excellent bottle of their favourite liquor, but she wants this to be a little more personal. She acquires small items for each of them. But what gift can one possibly give such a person as Cassandra? She is immensely practical; she does not care for fripperies.

She could give the Seeker armour, give her weapons. But she often asks Harritt and Dagna to craft new and better gear from the materials they find on expedition, and gives them to her companions. There is nothing significant in that, nothing personal.

She could ask them to craft something especially for the Seeker, something beyond the practical, something truly unique and beautiful. But Cassandra already seems to react to gifts of fine armour or weapons with a degree of suspicion, having made it plain that she cannot return the Inquisitor’s affection. To show her regard so clearly would be uncomfortable for both of them.

And beyond the utilitarian, she keeps nothing, wants for nothing. She enjoys books, but the Inquisitor could not bear the teasing that would ensue if she asked Varric to write something yet again. There is still far too much pain around Cassandra’s refusal of her attentions, even though it occurred some time ago. In truth, she doubts she will ever be free of it.

A conversation overheard by chance gives her an idea. In the end, in a shop in Val Royeaux, she finds what she has been looking for: a whetstone of the fabled Celestine Black. It comes in a small leather kit designed to be carried on a belt, with a simple silverite container for oil and a place for keeping a rag. It is not elegant—it is not expressive—but she knows that it is something the Seeker will accept.

And she does accept it, with the rare half smile that is a genuine expression of pleasure. The smile catches on the edge of the Inquisitor’s armour and hangs there through the rest of the day, a warmth that pains and comforts in equal part.

It is practical. It is appropriate. And it does not say too much. There is no reason for Cassandra to know that it carries the weight of a breaking heart.

*           *           *

**The second year**

_Knives_ , thinks Cassandra. _I could purchase a set of matching daggers. With good blades, of course, made by a master. The difficulty would be in finding something that is not overdone. They should be elegant, but functional. They should be beautiful. They should—_

It is not as if the Inquisitor does not already have daggers. Dozens of them, of every size and style. She commissions them from Harritt and Dagna. And everyone gives them to her. Even the diplomats and courtiers give her daggers, most of which Josephine uses as paperknives, as they are rarely good for anything better. And the countryside, ravaged by war, is littered with them. The Inquisitor is constantly picking them up and selling them, or passing them on to Cole, and occasionally keeping one of the better ones. Every time she turns round she is in danger of cutting herself. Daggers would be a foolish gift.

 _I am a fool,_ thinks Cassandra. _I do not know how to do this. I do not know how to do such a simple thing as to give my lover a_ _First Day_ _gift. How can this be so difficult? People do it every year. I am a_ pathetic _fool._

It is the first time the holiday has been celebrated since they became lovers, and the gift she gives is important. First Day is the turning of the year, full of new beginnings, full of hope. The gift must show something of that. It must be meaningful. It must show her love, show how happy the Inquisitor has made her. It must show everything.

It is the first time that she has cared this much for First Day, for the person, for showing the person her love. Even Galyan had not roused this in her, not to this degree. And she cannot think of what to give. She is a fool.

 _Flowers_ , she thinks. _They are a traditional gift for a woman. They are beautiful. They have symbolic meaning, so they could speak for me. And they are... entirely out of season_.

Pressed flowers? No, the symbolic meaning of dead flowers would be entirely too ambiguous. And she would still have the problem of finding them.

Woollen socks? They are useful—they keep one's toes warm under the worst conditions, even when wet, and they are appropriate for the time of year—but they are not romantic. Quite the contrary, especially after a week's wearing.

She paces, trying to work the problem out. _A horse_ , she thinks, wandering by the stables. _She loves horses. Perhaps I could_ — And then she looks at Master Dennet and the small army of stable lads running past the rows of stall doors, and thinks, _N_ _o, perhaps not_.

It would be easier if the woman did not already have everything she needed, and then some.

Perhaps Varric could help her. Varric is imaginative. But— _No. Varric hates me_. Or at the very least feels no kindness toward her. He is not to be trusted in such matters.

And he would _laugh_ at her.

Books, perhaps. But the Inquisition has an entire library. Perhaps there are books not in the library? She knows that the Inquisitor likes the romances she herself reads, though perhaps not to quite the same degree. She could ask Varric to write something. No, she has already decided that Varric would be impossible. Dorian might be able to suggest something. Dorian likes books. Dorian would be easy to get a gift for; you could just get him a book, any old book bound in fine leather and gold tooling, it doesn't matter about the contents, he caresses them on the shelves, it is practically indecent. He—

 _Focus_.

Chocolates. Those fine Nevarran sweets. The ones with the cream, and the ones with the almonds. _She likes those. I know she likes those._

_I know she likes those because I gave her some just last week, on a whim. She still has half a box. To give them again so soon... no. What was I thinking, giving her something so close to First Day_ _?_

_I should have been planning this months ago. I am a fool._

_Josephine_ , she thinks. _Josephine always knows what to gift people with; she is a diplomat. It is part of her art._

She goes to find the Ambassador.

Cassandra waits until the runners leave; she does not want to admit her weakness publicly. When they are gone, she says, flushing, "I cannot think of a gift for the Inquisitor for First Day. I wish it to be... special."

Josephine beams. She was obviously happy when Cassandra's liaison with the Inquisitor began, and sighs for the romance of it all. She is clearly delighted to be asked for advice. "You wish to give her something that she would not normally acquire on her own, of course," she says, and Cassandra does her best to beam back. Josephine understands perfectly.

"A dress!" says Josephine.

 _What?_ thinks Cassandra, in shock.

"For the First Day Eve party," explains Josephine.

 _I hate parties_ , thinks Cassandra. And she had entirely forgotten about this one, doubtless in an effort to avoid thinking of unpleasant things. But of course there would be a party, on First Day Eve. _And we will have to be there_.

"It is an opportunity to wear our most beautiful clothing, to free ourselves from the everyday, to _bloom_ ," says Josephine. "To show our frivolous sides."

 _I do not have a frivolous side_ , thinks Cassandra firmly, scowling and stifling thoughts of Varric's romances.

Josephine is twinkling at her, damn it. "I know exactly what you are thinking," she is saying. "And I am not trying to get _you_ into a dress, although..." she trails off, looking slightly dreamy, and then clears her throat abruptly. "In any case, it is the Inquisitor we are speaking of. She usually must present herself as the face of the Inquisition, which is why we have dress uniforms, but here in Skyhold, at our own party, that is not necessary, and.... well. If you were to give her a dress, and give it to her _before_ the party, she might actually put it on."

Josephine can sometimes be naive, thinks Cassandra.

Perhaps Leliana would have better ideas, though Cassandra knows that she is prone to the same ridiculous notions Josephine falls victim to: her fondness for impractical shoes makes that very clear. But she is sensible overall, so....

"Daggers?" says Leliana helpfully.

Cassandra makes a disgusted noise and considers sticking one into her. At least Varric's suggestions would have been original.

"Perhaps she already has enough of those," says the spymaster thoughtfully. "And they are not very expressive of personal feelings, no? We must think of something better than that." She toys with the papers on her table and then picks up a quill.

"A poem," she says finally, decisively. "Write her a love poem."

Trust a bard to come up with such a foolish idea.

It is pure desperation that makes her consult Sera, and as she had expected, the elf is of no help at all. It was not that she did not have suggestions; she did. She had more than suggestions, she had certain items to show the Seeker, stashed in a box in the back of her cabinet, and a recommendation for where Cassandra could obtain similar artifacts in the very exclusive shop in Val Royeaux from which she had stolen them.

Cassandra _knows_ of such things, certainly, but she has never before _seen_ them. She exits the tavern by the upper stairs, breathing heavily with suppressed outrage, and hopes that the cold wind will reduce her heightened colour, or at least provide an excuse for it. Such toys are _not_ a romantic gift. They are _entirely_ inappropriate.

And in any case there is not enough time to travel to Val Royeaux and back.

A love poem. Leliana thinks she should write a love poem. She cannot write poetry. She can barely write reports. She loves reading, loves words, but putting them together herself... no. Poetry requires resources that she does not have.

But it would be personal.

It would also be bad. Very bad. _And there is nothing_ , she thinks glumly, _quite so bad as bad poetry_.

Perhaps she could write a letter instead of a poem. Something to express how she feels, that the Inquisitor can keep with her and read when Cassandra is not there. That might be manageable.

 _To my love_ , she writes, sitting at her table. No. _To my heart._ Now this simply sounds foolish. Her heart is in her chest, not floating around attached to someone else. Why has she never before noticed how ridiculous such sentiments are when they are put in writing? She sighs and decides to ignore the problem for the moment.

 _You are my heart._ No, she said that already. She crosses it out. Then she rewrites it: if she starts the letter with the Inquisitor's name, she will not have said it already. _When we came together I knew_ —actually, she knew before that. _I knew that I loved you from the moment_ — When was it, exactly? _We met many months ago, but I did not love you then. Now I do. There is no one I love more_. Well, I should hope not. _You are the stars in my sky_. Oh, for Andraste's sake. This is dreadful. It is beginning to sound like the bastard offspring of bad poetry and a military report.

An hour later, she looks at what is left after all she has written and crossed out and rewritten and crossed out— _I love you—_ and throws her quill across the room.

Maker. This will be the death of her. All she wants is one thing, one simple thing. She wants to give Trev something that will show how much she loves her. That her love is deep and wide and constant as a river. That she will give everything, until she has nothing left, and then she will still give more.

One simple gift. Why is it so difficult?

 _I am a fool_.

And then she thinks of something.

*           *           *

It is the morning of First Day. Dawn comes late, but now it will return a little sooner each day. The first light slides across the planes of the Inquisitor's face, bringing it into focus, making her solid and real as the certainty of night's passing. Cassandra lies turned on her side, watching Trev's chest rise and fall, listening to the slow sound of her breathing. She is normally up long before this time and has already prayed and breakfasted, but today is First Day.

They were up late last night, much later than usual; the ball Josephine organized had been a rousing success. Cassandra had, much to her surprise, found herself enjoying it. There was the good fellowship of the Inquisitor's companions and advisors and the regulars with whom they spent their time, people like Krem and Harding and Dagna and Harritt and Morris, everyone, for everyone was invited from the highest to the lowest: this was not some Orlesian fête where only the highest of the high played and attempted to displace each other. The courtiers who might attempt it, for once outnumbered, could be ignored. This was about friends, and family. Even those on duty, the cooks, the guards, worked in shifts, so that they could have at least an hour or two of celebration with the others.

She had even danced, and enjoyed it. But perhaps that was because she had refused everyone but Trev.

And then of course, after the ball, there were other activities to keep them awake. So now she lies abed, scandalously late in the morning, and finds in herself no desire to rise. The door is locked; the servants will not disturb them. She is lying in bed with the woman she loves, warm and comfortable. There is no reason to rise. But she feels restless, unsettled. _I should make up the fire_ , she thinks eventually.

She pads naked from the bed, pokes the embers and adds kindling; the fire flares satisfactorily. She runs down the stairs and cautiously opens the door a crack. Good. There is a basket of fresh bread and some pastries waiting, still warm, under cloth. She pulls it in and locks the door again.

The fire has caught well. She adds more wood. Soon the room will be warm. She sets the basket on a bedside table, shivers, and slides back beneath the quilts. A sleepy arm wraps round her. "You're cold," Trev grumbles, but presses closer to her back. Cassandra allows herself a smile.

"Love and light," she whispers, the traditional First Day greeting.

"Love and light," Trev murmurs in reply, her arm tightening.

They lie in silence for a while after that, spooned together, Trev's hand lazily rubbing over Cassandra's stomach.

"You're awfully tense," Trev says eventually. "What's the matter?"

"The room is cold," lies Cassandra. "I'm still warming up."

After a moment the arm around her pulls away; Trev is sitting up. "Tea will help," she says, reaching for an enormous soft robe and pulling on the ugly thick socks that she wears in the morning in place of slippers. She takes the kettle that was filled with water the previous evening and sets it over the fire and prepares the tea.

She finds the robe she keeps for Cassandra and hands it to her. "Wrap yourself in this so you can sit up," she says, and the Seeker obeys. The kettle does not take long to heat, and Trev pours the hot water into the pot and brings it and mugs to set on the table by the bed, and climbs back in beside her lover and reaches for the basket.

"There will be _crumbs_ ," says Cassandra reprovingly.

"Yes," agrees Trev cheerfully, taking an enormous bite from a pastry and spraying fragments everywhere.

The bread is still warm, and comes with a small pot of butter. Cassandra licks it off her fingers—"I could help with that," says Trev, eyeing her sidelong—and drinks hot tea and feels her nerves settle marginally.

And then Trev sets her mug down and says quietly, "I have something for you." There is a drawer in the bedside table; she opens it and takes out a small box and hands it to Cassandra.

The box, a little crudely made from a dark-stained hardwood, has an inexpertly carved rose on its lid. Wondering, she opens it. Inside there is a small amulet.

She recognizes the blue-green glow of veil quartz. It is held in the curving clasp of a molded silverite dragon, and hangs from a silverite chain, and the tingle in her fingers when she lifts it tells her that it is fade-touched. It is very beautiful.

"I asked Dagna to charm it," Trev says. "I thought you should have something to give you a little extra protection, as you insist on always being at the front of every charge. I would have liked to have made it myself, but I can't work with stone or metal. But I did suggest the design, and I did make the box. It is not _quite_ up to the standards of Skyhold's most lowly apprentice carpenters, but I put my heart into it." Her tone is bantering, but her eyes are not.

"Trev," says Cassandra softly. The amulet is magnificent. It is not only that it is beautiful; she knows that with these materials, and Dagna's charm, it offers a level of protection far beyond the ordinary. And the box... She takes the box in her other hand and turns it, smooths the rose with her thumb, looks up. "It is beautiful. It is perfect. And I would rather have your box than that of any other." She finds herself smiling, a rare, wide, proper smile. Is that relief on the Inquisitor's face? "Thank you," she says. She puts the box down and catches the back of Trev's neck and kisses her, and feels Trev smile against her mouth.

Eventually she rises and goes to the closet in which she secreted her own box when the Inquisitor was absent, and brings it out. It is plain and sturdy, a practical box. She gives it to Trev and slides back into bed and sits waiting, finding it hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

Trev opens the box and lifts out the contents and sets the box aside. "It is used, but the leather is still in good shape," Cassandra finds herself saying. "I wore it for a little while when I was young, in training. Until I grew out of it. But you are more slender than I am. I asked Silvana, the seamstress, if it could be made to fit you, and she said yes, it could be altered a little, and did so. Though I believe she lost a few needles in the process, and had to ask Harritt for assistance." She is babbling. She is a fool.

Trev is running one hand gently over the dragonhide. Her fingers slide up to touch the embroidery. "I know that you are not fond of your family," says Cassandra, by now completely terrified by the Inquisitor's lack of response, "but the Pentaghast crest is somewhat grim, and so I had Silvana add the Trevelyan crest, and—"

"Cassandra," Trev interrupts her, "Whose jerkin was this, originally?"

The Seeker swallows. "It belonged to Anthony."

There is a moment of silence. And then Trev looks at Cassandra. Her face is open and vulnerable and astonished; there is none of the humour she usually sets as a guard. Cassandra realizes that there are tears in her eyes.

The Inquisitor puts out one hand to touch Cassandra's cheek. The touch is gentle and the hand is shaking. "Oh, my love," says Trev intensely. Something wound tight in Cassandra relaxes, something floods through her. She has no words; she knows it does not matter. She catches Trev's free hand and squeezes it gently and draws it to her heart.

"Oh, my love," whispers Trev again, and leans forward to kiss her.

 _If I am a fool_ , thinks Cassandra, _we are fools together_.

**Author's Note:**

> So... the holiday. I had solstice in mind when I wrote the original Wintersend shard that started this, which came into my mind and was written quickly one morning while drinking coffee, and I didn't bother to research the Theodosian calendar and holidays before I wrote it. Then afterwards I did the research, and, well, damn. There is Satinalia, which involves gift giving, but which is also much more like Carnival than I had in mind. It also, if one assumes a rough equivalence to the Gregorian calendar, happens on the first of November, which is nowhere near solstice. Then there is First Day, the equivalent of New Year's. The Wintersend holiday is later, on the equivalent of the first of March, and more religious. So none of these holidays were exactly what I had in mind. 
> 
> How inconvenient.
> 
> In the end I revised the story to be set on First Day. It is probably the closest to solstice, it involves "drinking and merriment" but is focused on family and neighbours and presumably friends, and I am just going to headcanon that it also involves gift-giving. So there.
> 
> The original sad little Shard assumed that Cassandra had rejected the Inquisitor but the Inquisitor could not stop caring, and I intended to leave it at that. It wasn't as if I hadn't written a lot of stories that that bit could have come from, stories that had a happy ending after all the misery. But then... it felt unfinished. So I thought it would be fun to add the celebration of the same holiday a year later, a much happier one, for balance.
> 
> Initially I intended this to be a generic Cassandra/Female Inquisitor story, but in the end Trev insisted that it was about her. And who can refuse Trev? Not me, it seems.
> 
> "What would Cassandra get Trev as a gift?" I said to my partner, who then proceeded to free associate an entire set of gift plot points and extrapolate bits of random internal monologue for Cassandra, right on the spot. (She is an extraordinary storyteller and quite amazing and I am SO lucky to have such a partner for this reason as for so many others.) So I took all the random bits and started writing them up and adding things, and, well, it got longer.
> 
> So this is a solstice gift for my love, who years ago made my own life so much better and who continues to make my life wonderful in so many different ways. Thank you, love.
> 
> It is also a solstice gift to all my readers, to those who leave hits and those who've left kudos and comments and thereby given me so much encouragement, and everyone who ships Cassandra with a female Inquisitor. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
